


By the Sword

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: SGA - Fandom
Genre: Gen, POV Inanimate Object, Weapons, sword - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I am a weapon.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the SGA LFWS Round 1 challenge, with the prompt "inanimate object POV, starting with 'I am.'" This won second place in the round.

I am a weapon. I was forged from virgin steel, tempered and folded and watered until I shone; I shine now from much cleaning, not from use. I am sharp enough to cleave a feather in flight, have been kept sharp with constant care, but my edge is untested. I am a weapon that is not wielded; I am no weapon at all.

I was made to slay monsters. The first hands that bore me were strong and sinewy and quickly bloodied, but even they slicked with sweat and let me fall when faced by the Wraith; I fear nothing. Other hands then took me up, and notched my edges against armor no human hand had forged, but those hands shriveled and spasmed and died all the same; I cannot die. I lay and was left lying, as my makers took flight, giving up homes and land and children to the culling; I cannot flee.

Then the Runner took me up, and then I tasted Wraith blood. These hands felt no fear. They did not weaken. They did not stray. He was a weapon as I was a weapon, honed in fire, shaped by blows, a slayer of monsters and above all a survivor. In his hands I was mended, cleaned, sharped, and when he wielded me against his foes, I sang. In his hands I lived my purpose and no monster stood before us.

Then the Runner stopped. He did not let me fall; I rode as ever on his back, keen and waiting, thirsty for blood. But we came to the city of the Ancestors, and here there were no Wraith, no monsters. Just strange people from distant stars who found me amusing, a curiosity, who wanted to touch me but flinched when I bit their soft hands. I was a weapon, but more rarely did the Runner wield me; he relied on his gun more, or his fists, or even, sometimes, on his friends.

(I have no friends.)

He keeps me clean and sharp. He dances with me almost daily, cleaving the air with my razored edge instead of cleaving flesh. I am ready whenever I am drawn; but now he takes me out to hack wood, to pry metal, to slice rope or the flesh of animals already dead. I would cry out for blood those days; on days when I taste blood, I would weep for joy. (I have no voice but the voice he gives me; only in his hands I sing.)

The Runner took me up, and he did not weaken or stray. He feels no fear and has not died. But he is not a Runner anymore. In this city of Ancestors, he stopped.

I cannot fear. I cannot die. I cannot move. I cannot speak. And I am not a weapon anymore.


End file.
